Deafening Silence
by Sulky Shadow
Summary: There's a lot in the world that we don't say. And sometimes it's the silence that speaks the loudest.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Danny Phantom. All characters go to their respectful owners. I only own this story.

* * *

**Deafening Silence**

You sit on your bed, staring at the wall, watching the shadows slowly creep farther and farther into your room. When did the sun start going down? You were just outside in the afternoon light a few moments ago.

Right?

You should probably be getting up to do your homework that you know is due tomorrow, so you stand up and move to your desk where your textbook is sitting. Strange…you don't remember putting it there. But you ignore this oddity, pull out a sheet of paper, and begin the long process of your Algebra homework.

Factor the equation.

Your teacher mentioned something about factoring today in class. Or was that last week? When was this homework assigned again?

"I am the Box Ghost!"

You blink. Why are you fighting the Box Ghost over Amity Park? And why has the moon replaced the sun?

"Do you know how to factor?"

The Box Ghost blinks in confusion and opens his mouth. But in place of his voice is a blaring beeping.

You open your eyes and lift your head. The textbook is still open to the math problem, and the lined paper beside it is still blank.

* * *

Mr. Lancer walks to your desk and crosses his arms. "Mr. Fenton," he voice drones, "you have been asked a question."

You blink in response.

The class laughs in the background, but it sounds too muffled to really pay any attention to it. Behind you, Tucker whispers something close to your ear. You turn your head to ask him what he said, but the desk is empty; the class is filing out the door. And while you were looking around, Mr. Lancer somehow returned to his desk at the front of the class, although you didn't hear him walk away. But you ignore these strange occurrences and shove your blank notebook into your backpack, standing to make your way slowly to the door.

You hear Mr. Lancer's heavy sigh as the door clicks shut behind you.

* * *

Sam smacks Tucker upside the head. "Chew with your mouth shut, Tucker." Her voice is stern, and she reminds you of Maddie when she scolds you for your behavior.

"Sorry," Tucker mumbles around the burger in his mouth.

Sam shakes her head and turns back to you. "Well, I should get going. It's getting pretty late and my parents will start to worry."

Tucker nods and swallows. "Yeah, me too." He stands and dumps his trash in the garbage bin. "See you tomorrow, dude."

You don't speak as they wave and walk out the door together. It's almost eight, and you know your parents will be worried too if you don't hurry home, but you still hesitate. You don't want to go home. Not yet.

_Not ever._

"Kid, we're closing. You've gotta leave."

You sigh and stand up. It's nine o'clock now, according to the clock on the wall.

_They're definitely worried now._

Whatever. It's not like you care.

* * *

You try to stay as quiet as possible as you open the door, but it seems luck is against you, because the shriek of the door hinge does much more than just shatter the silence of the house.

"Where have you been?"

_Terror._

You flinch at the mixture of anger and relief in your mother's stern voice. "Out," you mumble, just loud enough for them to hear. What a pathetic excuse.

"That's no excuse, son." Jack is talking now, and his deep voice is even more ominous. "Your mother and I have been worried sick."

_There's a first time for everything._

Keeping your eyes glued to the floor, you slowly shuffle your way past their piecing glares. They're trying, you know.

_It's too late now._

"I'm going to bed," you mumble. They don't deserve any other response, so you'll give them none.

The bedroom door is shut before they even realize you're gone.

* * *

Breakfast is even more stressful than usual: Jack's trying to lighten the mood by ignoring the problem like he always does, while Maddie refuses to say a word on the issue.

"Your mother and I have developed a new weapon—"

_Shock._

"—that electrocutes ghosts and immobilizes them—"

_Anger._

"—so we'll have a better chance of capturing them for study."

Study. What a funny word. A strained chuckle finds its way past your lips.

Jack pauses. "Something funny?"

"No."

Jazz's attention is grabbed by your one-word response. Her perceptiveness is incredibly annoying, even at the best of times. You decide to ignore her questioning gaze.

Jack doesn't hear your tone, though; he keeps talking like nothing's happened. "It works, too. Your mother managed to—"

"I'm going to school," you interrupt. You don't need to hear this story again; you already have it memorized.

The kitchen is eerily silent as you walk away.

* * *

Lancer is talking again. Something about the book you were supposed to read. You zone him out; you didn't read anyway. A folded piece of paper lands on your desk, and you open it to find a written note. Sam is looking pointedly at you; it must be from her.

"_How much homework did the ghosts let you do last night?"_

None, you want to reply; but you don't. You'd be lying if you said ghosts were the source of your declining grade.

You haven't fought a ghost in weeks.

* * *

The weekend is almost unbearable, even though you don't remember most of it; you're too busy being lost in your thoughts to notice anything else. You spend Friday afternoon and all of Saturday in your room. You've memorized every crack on your ceiling, and every smear of dirt on your walls. The sun has tried to entertain you by throwing shadows of different shapes and sizes on your walls, but they aren't enough to keep you focused.

It's not until Jazz walks in—practically kicks down the door—that you notice anything.

"It's time for dinner," she says. "Mom—"

_Cold._

"—ordered pizza, so you don't have to worry about the food attacking you." Jazz smiles as if she's just cracked a funny joke, but you don't return the expression; you just stare at her unblinkingly. She coughs. "Well, the food's downstairs if you get hungry."

You stay silent as you watch your sister shuffle to the door. She's not moving very quickly, almost like she wants you to say something in response. But you don't say a word. And you don't go downstairs.

* * *

"Mr. Fenton, please see me after class."

You blink. Mr. Lancer is walking away from your desk, and the class is eerily silent while everyone looks at you. You're not sure why you're suddenly so important to everyone else, and you try to shrug off the chilling feeling clawing its way up your spine by fixating your gaze on your desk.

_You're not worth anything._

"Dude," Tucker whispers behind you. "You're really out of it today. Lancer was talking to you for, like, five minutes."

_Talking_ at_ me,_ you think back. No one ever talks _to_ you anymore, not when you're below everyone else.

The world begins to fade out again as Mr. Lancer resumes his lecture about whatever book you were supposed to read. You can't even remember the name of it.

Tucker is still talking behind you, but you ignore him. Eventually, he gives up trying to have a conversation with you and refocuses on the class. The shrill ringing of the bell that signals the end of class is the only thing that grabs your attention.

While the rest of the students collect their books and walk towards the door, you remain seated in your desk. The room seems much colder without the presence of twenty other bodies in it.

_Frozen._

"Mr. Fenton."

You sigh and stand up. It's just your luck that the desk you selected at the beginning of the school year is at the back of the room: it makes the long trek up to the perturbed teacher even lengthier, not to mention that his eagle vision is locked onto you, and you alone. That doesn't help either. You don't like being placed under the microscope like that.

The icy claw is around your neck again.

Finally, you reach the front of the class. Mr. Lancer is still eying you, and you avoid his gaze by staring mutely at the floor.

Mr. Lancer sighs (he's been doing that a lot around you). "Mr. Fenton…" He pauses, and he looks like he's considering his words carefully. "Are you doing all right?"

You glance up at him quickly before returning your gaze to your feet. You hadn't expected him to ask that. No one ever asks how you're doing.

"You seem…distracted lately, more so than usual. Now I know English isn't very exciting, but you usually have the decency to at least_ pretend_ to care."

You _have_ been trying. You've been trying _so hard_ not to show anyone what you're hiding. You've tried lying and hiding and running away, but none of your tactics have worked, so you've resorted to silence. It's just been luck that no one cares enough about you to ask why you don't talk anymore.

But Mr. Lancer noticed.

_Failure._

You smile bitterly to yourself. Lancer doesn't care about you. Not really. The only reason he noticed your lack of attention is because of your grade, because of your failure.

The ringing bell shatters the heavy silence, and you jump.

Mr. Lancer sighs again. "Well, I can't keep you from your next class for too long. Wait a moment; I'll sign you a pass."

What class do you have next? Math, right? Or is it Science?

"Here you are, Mr. Fenton." Lancer hands you the slip of paper, but he doesn't let go. Reluctantly, you look up slowly and meet his piercing gaze. "Just remember there's a test tomorrow."

_On what?_

But you're already gone.

* * *

Opening the front door to your house overloads your nose with the smell of ectoplasm.

You stumble back for a moment as your vision flickers out.

_No. Not again._

"Danny?"

"_No, please!"_

"Danny, is that you?"

A fuzzy blue shape moves around the corner; it pauses for a moment before moving closer to you.

_Suffocating._

The blue blob towers over your shaking form. When did you end up on the floor?

"_I'm sorry!"_

Someone's screaming, but that's all you're capable of registering before the world goes black.

* * *

"Danny, I'm really worried about you."

You look up at your sister.

"Why won't you tell me what happened?" she continues.

You open your mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. You just want to be left alone. Can't Jazz see that?

_All she sees is a pity case—someone to study for her paper._

Instead of answering, you go back to staring at your wall. There are still thirty-seven cracks in the corner. And that spider is still there, too, although it seems to have caught a fly since you last looked at it.

"Danny, please. Mom and Dad—"

You block her out. Jazz isn't here because she cares; she's here because of _Mom and Dad_. What a joke. Your own _sister_ is playing the middleman for the two groups. How pathetic.

_Worthless._

If your so-called _parents_ really cared about you, they'd be in here, not Jazz.

_Maybe they know you won't tell them anything either._

Why can't they leave you alone? You haven't done anything to bother them. Heck, you've been outright _avoiding_ everyone in your entire family.

_And your friends, too._

Suddenly, you notice the lack of white noise and look up. Jazz is still sitting on your bed, gazing at you with that pitying look in her eyes that she always has when she sees you.

_So helpless._

Jazz sighs and stands up.

_Such a disappointment._

She doesn't even look back as she walks towards the door.

_I expected more._

The resounding click echoes in the empty room.

You're alone again.

* * *

Tucker manages to catch you after school as you are walking down the steps.

"Hey, man. Wanna hang out?"

Sam's missing, you notice, but that doesn't really matter. Tucker is asking to spend time with you. Someone wants you to be with them. When was the last time you actually did something fun?

_Two months ago._

You shake your head to clear the thought. That was the past. It's time to move on now. You nod your head slowly, almost hesitantly; you're not imagining this, are you?

Tucker smiles. "Great. How about we—" He's cut off by the ringing of his phone. "Hang on… Hello?"

While you wait, you occupy yourself by watching the rest of the school scramble past, on their way to hangout spots or back home to study for the upcoming tests. Now that you think about it, you realize you don't recall ever taking a quiz in Lancer's class. Maybe you just blocked it from your memory. Or maybe you forgot to show up to his class that day. That happens a lot, in more than just Lancer's class, too.

"Okay. Bye."

You turn away from your classmates and refocus on Tucker. He looks guilty now.

"Uh…sorry, man. I forgot I have an appointment this afternoon. We'll have to hang out later." He honestly looks regretful.

You resist the urge to scoff at his expression. Of course this would happen; this _always_ happens. Just when you think someone is being genuinely enthusiastic about spending time with you, they smack you in the face with an excuse to be somewhere else. It _always_ happens.

But you don't tell him that. It's not like he meant for this to happen; it's not like he _planned_ this setup. You just shake your head and walk off in the direction of the park. You weren't going home anyway; you avoid that place as much as possible now. You wonder if anyone's noticed that small fact.

_Why would anyone care enough to notice anything you do?_

After you reach the park, you decide to sit under a tree and listen to the birds. The birds don't judge your decision to sit under their tree.

_Not like the rest of the world would._

Your phone rings an hour later; it's Tucker, probably calling to see if you can still hang out together.

You don't pick up.

* * *

You're standing in the train yard, just outside Amity Park. Off in the distance, a train sounds its horn, the only disturbance in the still air. You almost smile at how peaceful it is compared to your daily life; it's never this silent anywhere else in Amity Park.

You decide to look around and admire the briskness of the air, so you begin climbing over the maze of tracks before you. But your foot gets caught on one of the railroad ties, and you find yourself confronted with a face full of grimy rocks, slick with oil from the passing diesel trains. Except, this oil seems different: it's glowing slightly and looks almost green. And it smells just like…

You freeze.

_Tearing._

You know this smell better than anyone else.

You don't want to think why that is.

Now you know why you were so content to just admire the overcast sky and listen to silence.

_Another kick to the face._

Your leg is still caught underneath the railroad tie, but you can't pull it loose, no matter how hard you try. It's stuck, and you can hear a train horn in the distance. It's coming closer.

If you weren't so unsurprised, you might have laughed, even if it was bitter. It seems you're never free from your life, not since…

The sound of crunching rocks interrupts your thoughts, and you close your eyes in resignation. Of course they would show up, you shouldn't have expected anything different.

_Stupid._

"Danny? What are you doing out here?"

You don't open your eyes at the sound of her voice.

"_Why would anyone care about _you_?"_

The train is getting closer; you can feel the vibrations in the tracks. It won't be long now.

"Danny, get up. There's a train coming."

The movement of rocks next to your head catches your attention, and you open your eyes to see her face.

_Uncaring. Cruel._

She smiles down at you and holds out her hand. "Let me help you."

"_You're all alone now with no one to save you."_

The train is just one hundred feet away now, not even trying to slow down to save your life. You know without a doubt that _he's_ the driver. It was probably his idea to capture you in the first place.

"_You can't even save yourself."_

"Danny, come on."

The train hits.

* * *

You must have been screaming; that must be why Jazz comes running into your room. You're still panting and rubbing your chest, feeling the frantic thumping of your heart as it tries to outrun the train that just hit you.

"Danny, are you all right?"

You don't answer; your eyes are still staring blankly at the wall in front of you as you take in your dream.

"_You shouldn't _exist_."_

Of course it was them. They would always be the death of you.

_You're already dead._

"Danny, what's wrong?"

_Everything._

You shake your head.

"Are you okay?"

_No._

You nod.

* * *

"Are you feeling all right, Danny? You look terrible." Sam tries to reach over and feel your forehead, but you push her away, because you already know that you're not sick.

_Ghosts don't get sick._

You haven't had a bug since the lab accident two years ago, not even a cold. Apparently your ectoplasm is perfect for fighting viruses. But you still nod to answer her question, even though you know she's silently asking you to tell her what's wrong.

"Are you sure? You look like you haven't slept in days." Tucker always finds a way to sound pitying, even when he's not.

_That's because you haven't slept, not in three days._

You're tired of reliving that night.

_Ripping_.

Your grades are already terrible; sleeping well isn't going to bring them up at all.

_Pathetic._

You're already living a nightmare; you don't need to dream one up, too.

* * *

You just barely manage to hold in your scream as you bolt upright in your bed. You want to bang your head against a wall for your lack of planning.

_Of course you'd fall asleep._

You're not infallible; you can't stay awake forever; you're not perfect.

"_You're weak and pathetic."_

You tangle your fingers through your messy, sweat-soaked hair and shake your head violently. You're not weak, nobody's perfect, nobody. You're not pathetic.

_But you are._

You're not crying over some stupid dream.

_Because it's not a dream, it's a memory._

You're not losing sleep over this ridiculous nightmare. Maddie always told you that dreams seemed scarier right after you woke up, and that when you looked back on them in the morning, you could laugh at how frightening they seemed. But you can't do that now, because when you wake up, you have to stare the nightmare right in the face and pretend it doesn't exist.

_Because the nightmare isn't real._

There is no nightmare, only real life.

* * *

Dash has always preferred to bully you to anyone else, and it's been happening for so long that it's become part of your daily routine. Except today. Today, you're not prepared for Dash when he shows up.

"Hey, Fenturd, you missed out on yesterday's beating. I'll just have to give you twice as hard of a wailing now."

Today is different because Dash pushes things too far. He decides that gym is as good a time as any to corner you, not that you were running.

"_You're just a nuisance; you never help anyone."_

Today, Dash notices the cuts and scars on your arms and back.

"Hey, guys, check it out. Fenton's cutting himself. How pathetic."

_Worthless._

But you don't turn around. You're still changing, and if Dash were to see the scar that really matters, then everything would be over. Unfortunately, Dash doesn't know what you're hiding, so he thinks that you're cowering away from him in fear.

So he grabs your shoulder—you flinch violently at his touch—and spins you around. All you can do is stare wide-eyed at the jock and cling to the shirt you're holding over your chest. If he would just let you _put it on, _you would let him beat you unconscious, because even if you're lost to the world, at least your secret is safe.

"What, do you think that puny gym shirt is going to protect you?" Dash laughs, and the group behind him laughs along. "It's not going to do anything to save you."

"_You're on your own."_

You try to stop him, you honestly do, but Dash is a football player, and he's a _lot_ stronger than you. There's no way you had any chance of stopping him from tearing the shirt out of your hands.

The world freezes as time stops.

Dash's eyes scan your chest, seeing what can never be unseen, observing scars that _shouldn't exist_, because you never got them_._

_Someone else did._

"F-Fenton?"

You rip the shirt from Dash's hands and frantically pull it over your head. But it's too late. They've seen; they know your secret. They'll come after you now, they'll want to know _why_, and you can never tell them.

_They'll never believe you._

You ignore the speechless jocks and push past them as you run out of the locker room. You forget about the backpack sitting in your locker with all of your secrets in it. You forget that you have four more classes to go to before school is over. You forget about Sam and Tucker, who are waiting for you to walk out. You ignore their startled cries as you sprint past them. You forget about the world around you that is just starting to spin again after the disaster in the locker room. You can't think about anything but _getting out of there._

"_You have no where to run."_

It's over.

They know.

* * *

You're running when you hear the sirens. It's just like last time: they're chasing you again and there's no hope of escape. Just when you think you're free, they snatch the leash tied around your neck and laugh as you struggle to flee.

"_So easy to catch."_

The sirens are getting louder now, and you're starting to run out of breath, but you keep sprinting. You can't go back. You _never_ want to go back.

"Danny!"

You dive around a building to hide, but it's too late. They've caught up. You're trapped.

_Game over._

"He's hiding back here." You don't recognize that voice, but the one that responds bolts you to the spot.

"Oh, thank goodness. We've found him." It's _her_.

_Agony._

You should have known she'd always find you. She'll always find you to make sure the job is finished. Always.

You cower in as small of a ball as you can make yourself and ignore the stench of the surrounding trash bags in the dumpster as you wait for the pain to start.

Light from a flashlight blinds you momentarily, and you let out a whimper.

_How pathetic._

"Hey, kid, we're not going to hurt you."

"_You can trust us, hunter's honor."_

"We're going to need the paramedics."

_Ripping. Tearing. Cutting._

Never trust anyone.

"Oh, Danny. We've been so worried. Where have you been?" It sounds like she's crying.

"_I hate you."_

"Is this your son?"

"Yes. Yes, this is Danny." Yeah, definitely crying. Sobbing probably.

"_No one wants you here."_

Someone's touching your arm, trying to pull you up. But you won't let them. You're _so close _to escaping—just a few more feet.

"_Let me go!"_

"Son, calm down. Secure him before he hurts himself."

"_Not until we're finished with you."_

More hands. You kick out, and your foot connects with something solid. Someone cries out.

Suddenly, you can't move, and you snap open your eyes to see who's captured you.

You're tied down to some bed in a blindingly white room. There are tubes jutting out of your arms and nose, and there's an annoying beeping to your left; it's really fast. You look around and notice the men in blue uniforms surrounding you and staring at your secured body.

_Pain._

You wait for one of them to lash out and make you suffer for disobeying them, for resisting your capture. You always get punished when you do something wrong. Why else would they tie you up? But your field of vision is suddenly blocked by red hair that reminds you of fire, and your nose is overwhelmed by an odor that reminds you of burning ectoplasm.

"_Just let me go!"_

"Oh, Danny! You're safe now." She bares her teeth in a smile that hides promises of pain and pulls you into a tight, crushing grip. "I'm so glad you're okay. You've been missing for three days."

That can't be right. You just left school an hour ago.

_When Dash found out about your secret._

Your heart—and the beeping—is beating too fast to be healthy, and all you know is that you want to _run_. You _have_ to get out of here now, before they bring out their tools again.

"Hi, Mad—" Your voice cracks; it's rusty from lack of use.

_She's your mother._

No, she's not.

"Hi, Mom," you whisper.

* * *

It's incredibly difficult to ignore the stares of your classmates when you return to school on Monday. Everyone knows what happed last Tuesday, they just don't know why, and, in high school, that's all that matters. No one cares that you went crazy; they want to know what set you off.

_Dash knows._

Dash is looking questioningly at you just like everyone else, but unlike the rest of the school, his gaze looks pitying and a bit frightened. Like the rest of the school, he wants to know_ why._

_Everyone hates you._

That's why you're so messed up. That's why you don't talk anymore. That's why you have nightmares. That's why you were in the hospital for the past three days. That's why you have so many scars on your body.

Sam and Tucker are trying to shield you from all of the attention, but, just like the rest of the school, they're looking at you strangely, too. Even Mr. Lancer has given up on trying to make the class focus; he knows a lost cause when he sees one.

_That's why he's stopped calling you up after class._

But you wish Lancer would try just a _bit_ harder; work just a _little_ bit longer on capturing the class' attention, because everyone's stares are a bit too familiar to what you so desperately want to forget about.

_Burning._

There's only so much staring at your desk can do to block out the rest of the world. Lancer isn't talking anymore, so you can't zone anything out. In fact, the whole room is deathly silent, and that's even worse because your thoughts are free to be as loud as they want.

"_Please stop!"_

You shake you head, which confuses the class even more.

_Please look away._

You're already on the edge; anything else and you'll go careening over into the abyss. You don't ever want to go back there; it's terrifying to be so alone.

From the front of the class, you hear Dash mutter, "What a freak."

You know that if you didn't have sensitive hearing, you would have never heard even the low rumble of his voice. But you do have amazing hearing, and you can hear him as if he is standing right beside you.

"_Freak."_

No one cares.

You feel your chest tighten up and your vision begins to blur as your eyes tear up.

_Stop it. Stop being weak._

You keep your eyes glued to the desk as you raise your hand.

"Mr. Fenton?"

You look up to meet Mr. Lancer's questioning gaze and see an ocean of pity staring you in the face and reflecting your puffy eyes. You try to blink away the tears in your eyes, but all it does is make them run down your cheeks.

_You're pathetic._

You open your mouth to speak, to ask to leave, but no sound comes out, and you end up moving your mouth like a gaping fish as you try to form a sentence. The rest of the class laughs.

"_No one cares what happens to you."_

Mr. Lancer doesn't try to get the class to quiet down; he just looks at you with regret and sorrow in his eyes.

_Don't just watch. Help._

The class becomes a mush of colors as more tears fill your eyes and run down your face. The class laughs louder.

"What a wimp."

"_You're on your own."_

You're not sure what happens, but the next thing you're aware of is that you're back in your room, staring at your wall. And you're still crying.

* * *

You don't leave your room anymore. You don't leave to eat, drink, go to school, and you definitely don't leave to talk to anyone. Everyone leaves you alone, too. Jazz gives up trying to get you to come out after two days. You never once answer her questions. In fact, you don't talk back at all.

Occasionally, you'll hear a knock on your door that is different from Jazz's tentative one (you've heard her's enough to know what it sounds like). These ones are louder and more intrusive on the silence of the room. They're not Jazz's, and Sam and Tucker always make Jazz knock when they come over, so there's only one option left, and there's no way you're opening the door for _them_.

When someone finally does work up the courage to enter your room, you're never there. At least, that's what they think. Jack and Maddie come in more times than you can count, but you don't even know what you would say to them, so you just avoid them entirely. Sam and Tucker come in a few times, but they get the message when they never see you there. They must tell Jazz you don't want to talk to anyone, because she stops coming in soon after. But Maddie and Jack don't seem to understand the message, even after a week.

Your nightmares only get worse. You're waking up every night screaming, and the only change with them is that Jazz doesn't try to come in and comfort you anymore.

_You're a lost cause._

Sam and Tucker don't come over anymore after the first week. It seems that seeing you break down in English made them lose any hope they still had for you that you would pull through.

_Such a disappointment._

Jack and Maddie haven't once come up to try and get you to go to school, and the school has stopped calling to ask why you aren't there. No one is even attempting to ask how they can help you feel better. They probably think nothing's wrong; you're just going through a phase. Everyone thinks you can get better on your own. But you can't.

_You're too weak and pathetic. You're not even strong enough to save yourself. You're on your own._

The spider in the corner is dead now. He died a week ago.

_No one cares that he's gone. No one's even noticed._

You wonder if anyone would notice, or even care, if you just disappeared.

No one cares now. You haven't seen the light of day in two weeks, and no one has asked you what's wrong or why you're isolating yourself.

Your life has gotten significantly more boring since...the incident. During the day you just stare at the wall and try not to doze off from lack of sleep. The days seem impossibly infinite and nonexistent at the same time. No matter how much you wish the sun to stay up, the night always arrives too soon. And every night you relieve the day that ruined your life. You're torn and shredded and ripped apart by the very things that should protect you. You plead with the monsters, but they rip your salvation from your arms, and they don't even care that it's killing you.

During the day you're forced to remember watching him die. And at night you dream of glowing green eyes.

* * *

You're running. Running, running, running. But you're not going anywhere. The trees are whizzing past you, and your feet are moving beneath you, but the endless open field just keeps going.

You're not sure why you're running, exactly, but you know that whatever is behind you is the most terrifying thing on the planet. You don't dare look over your shoulder for fear that just looking at the horrible creature will kill you. Somewhere in the back of your mind you know that this monster can destroy you with just a pointed look.

Your breaths become shallower the longer you run, but you can't stop (the last time you stopped you almost died). The only things keeping you alive at this point are you legs, and you know they are running out of steam fast.

You clutch your chest in an attempt to ease the burning pain. Your hand comes back sticky and wet. It's blood. Your chest has been torn open and you are bleeding out. Now you're not only exhausted, you're also shaking from lack of blood. You desperately try to keep going, to keep running, but your body is finished; you're dead; it's over.

Green eyes watch sadly from the sideline; they are laced with pain, but no voice speaks out.

_You're on your own._

Suddenly the monster is on top of you and your eyes are branded with the sight of neon blue. The rabid creature smells the blood pouring out of your chest and immediately sinks its teeth into your abdomen, tearing at the already broken skin, consuming your inner organs until you are nothing more than a shell of crushed bones. It probably never even registered that you were screaming.

Overhead, the orange sky smiles down.

* * *

Once again you wake up to the sight of your room, only this time the pain hasn't gone away. You look down at your chest, but it looks fine.

_Whatever "fine" means anymore._

You're not bleeding, your chest hasn't been torn open, and your insides are still there. But you feel as though there is a hand inside your chest, probing around, looking for specimens to collect for study and to consume.

You hate it, but there's nothing you can do to rid yourself of the feeling because it doesn't really exist.

_Just like everything else that's wrong with you._

You have to leave. The idea burns its way into your skull and won't budge. You _need_ to get out of here.

So you do.

You stand up, ignore the fact that it is two in the morning, and walk downstairs.

It doesn't matter where you go. You just need to leave. Anywhere is better than here, where there are monsters lurking in every shadow, waiting for the opportune moment to strike when you are weakest and kill you. And now you can actually run. You aren't trapped anymore in their hunting grounds; you know a way out and you plan to take it.

You're not going to submit yourself to their torture anymore.

* * *

You're almost to the portal when you're found.

"Danny? Is that you?"

You almost fall over you turn around so fast (you've learned the hard way what happens when you leave your back turned to them). Maddie is standing at the base of the stairs bleary eyed and in her pajamas, looking like she's still half-asleep.

Even the sight of her looking defenseless and confused terrifies you (your heart is beating as though you've run a marathon just moments ago) and you back up in fear until you feel the wisps of the Ghost Zone lapping at your back and caressing your skin. It burns, more than anything else you have ever felt before.

_Except once._

The ghostly energy drips like acid against your skin, searing against the scars scattered across your broken body like they are new again, like they are just as raw as when you first got them.

_I'm your son!_

Why is it always _them_? Why can't they leave you alone? You never hurt them, and yet they tore everything from you. They ignored the truth even when it was screaming in their faces and ruined your life forever.

"_You're a piece of scum."_

Maddie's face is still clouded with confusion, and it looks like she is still taking in the scene before her. It seems she can't comprehend why her own son would be running from her, but you're done trying to explain things to her; she's had her chance at redemption and she's failed miserably. "Danny, what..." Her voice is faint, barely above a whisper, like she's scared you'll disappear if she speaks too loudly. "Where are you going?"

The burning in your chest isn't just from the ectoplasm seeping into your skin, trying to reawaken what will never exist again; your vision begins to fog and blur before you can force the tears back. Does she really think you can just _tell_ her? Does she _honestly_ think it's that _easy_? You choke out a scoff that sounds more like a broken sob, even to your own ears. "I'm going to find him," you manage to whisper; any louder and your voice will crack and there will be no stopping the dam that has been overflowing and waiting to burst for over two months now.

"Find who?" Oh, ignorance; you don't think you could feel any more contempt for your own blood if you tried. Has she honestly not figured it out? Has your suffering not been _enough_ for her?

"My best friend," you spit. No amount of yelling or tears will ever convey how much your chest wants to be torn open to relieve the pressure that becomes so much sometimes that you can't even _breathe_. You're past the point of words and forgiveness; they've had _weeks_ to help you and they haven't once lifted a finger. So you'll show them what loss truly feels like by taking what truly matters, by tearing what they "love" right from their very arms, just like he was stolen from you.

Maddie's face scrunches up and her eyes frantically search your face as she tries to solve the riddle, desperately shoving every puzzle piece together in hopes that the end result will be some form of a coherent answer. "But..." And then her face is blank: she understands.

But it's still too late.

"I'm going to meet him," you breathe. And then you are falling, into the portal, into the pain, into freedom.

The burning increases until you can't help but scream. Human and ghost were never meant to meet; blood and ectoplasm should never touch. But even through all of the blinding agony, you can still feel him. You can remember the torture of losing him and the burning that filled your body when you first met. You died when you were first introduced; there's not much more you wouldn't do to see him again.

Faintly, through your own screams, you hear another, higher-pitched wailing sob match your own: "Danny!"

Then...blissful silence.


End file.
